He stands, swaying gently from side to side
Weighing the heavy house brick in his hand
Staring intently at the curved shop window
It measures eleven feet high, fifteen feet wide
Standing behind the gleaming crystal screen
Dummies in their wool and worsted threads
Posed languidly, jaunty Trilbys on their heads
Seemingly inviting passers by to join them
In their blinding floodlit Burton’s wonderland
In his cider addled mind the choice is stark

Another long corrugated cardboard winter
In the grungy stairwell behind the slipper baths
Surrounded by paper litter and autumn leaves
With bottled Merrydown and rough scrumpy
To blot out the dankness in the piss stink dark
Or the next six months in Wormwood Scrubs
With three meals each day, dry bunk by night
Spinning yarns with long lost recidivist pals
A whole twenty five shillings saved each week
Pounding old lags sheets in laundry dolly tubs

Summoning strength he aims brick at glass
Falls backwards landing smack on his arse
Block hits window dead centre, corner first
Exploding casement showers shards at feet
Like wartime days when he could not be beat
On patrol shattered shops with each shell burst
Alarm loudly clanging, he steps into the display
Old bill handcuffing as they’re leading him away
“I am Harry Appletree, please take me to my room
I smashed that winder good, made a proper boom.”


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